


Four Calling Birds

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 02:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: It's the most wonderful time of the year, where Bernie and Serena dance around their feelings even as they're rocking around the Christmas tree. Logs on the fire fill them with desire...anyway. Christmas fluff.





	Four Calling Birds

**mourning dove.**

Fletch has to be responsible for decorating the ward, Serena thinks. No doubt the Christmas spirit overflowing from putting up the tree with his kids, hanging stockings, the smell of pine filling the home. There are garlands about the nurse’s station, giant paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. Serena even spots a few bunches of green leaves and white berries floating in the air. 

“Bit much, don’t you think?” Bernie’s voice comes up from behind her, startling Serena enough that she jumps, almost drops the chart she’s holding. Bernie’s hand comes up to steady her elbow, warm through the thin cloth of her blouse: red, in deference to the season. The touch does nothing to settle Serena’s jumping heart, and when she turns her head, she finds Bernie’s face quite close to her own.

“Not much for the holiday spirit?” she asks, trying to regain some equilibrium, moves infinitesimally back from Bernie, just a hairsbreadth of space between them. 

Bernie lifts her shoulder in a shrug, her arm brushing against Serena. It’s common, these touches, this closeness. Serena doesn’t quite know what to make of it, has never gotten butterflies from standing close to Sian or one of the mothers at Elinor’s school during a parents’ meeting. It’s a new sensation, but not an entirely unwelcome one. And she’d bet, from the way Bernie’s eyes go dark, the way her breath catches, that Bernie just might feel the same pooling of heat in the base of her belly, the same thudding in her chest.

“Hard to get into the swing of things when it looks like my Christmas will be spent alone in my flat.” There’s no bitterness to Bernie’s tone, just a flat statement of fact. Serena nudges her into a walk and they move through the ward, towards their office. 

“You’re always welcome at mine, you know that,” Serena says, is about to add that Bernie can help with the cooking when Raf’s giddy tone interrupts them.

“Oi, you’re under the mistletoe, you two!” He’s standing at the nurse’s station, pointing above their heads, and they look up in tandem. Serena feels her face go red, and when she looks at Bernie, the apples of her cheeks are tinged pink as well. 

“Tradition is tradition,” she says, leans in with a quick peck to Bernie’s cheek, leaves just the faintest imprint of her lipstick and doesn’t wipe it away, rather likes the way it looks, noticeable only to those who know where look. She reaches up and plucks one of the berries off the sprig, hands it to Bernie. “Lessening its kissing power,” she says, “so some other feckless saps won’t get stuck under here again.” 

As it turns out, Serena is the one who gets stuck under it again, with Bernie no less. It’s Fletch who catches them, looking up from a patient’s bedside. Bernie’s the one to lean forward a press a kiss to Serena’s soft skin, her lips just touching the corner of Serena’s mouth, and all Serena can think is how much of their day they spend in close proximity. The feeling of warmth that flows through her body at the press of Bernie’s lips lasts all the way through a three hour surgery, and she thinks of it every time her eyes flit up to meet Bernie’s, dark above her surgical mask, twinkling with some hidden humor.

She doesn’t think of mistletoe again until she’s got her coat on, long and red, her fur hat in hand, Bernie striding right alongside her. And then Morven coughs loudly. “Ah, Ms. Campbell? Looks like you and Ms. Wolfe have found yourself in a pickle once more.” 

When Serena turns to look at Bernie this time, she feels her breath catch in her throat, sees how Bernie’s eyes look down towards her mouth and finds herself thinking _this is it_ , finds herself feeling hopeful, feeling excited.

“Did you know that mistletoe berries are poisonous to humans? Not to birds, though.” Jason’s voice cuts through the moment, a guillotine to the tension that has built between Bernie and Serena. “You’re a bit like a mourning dove, Dr. Bernie. Though Auntie Serena might say you’re more of a Laced Polish Chicken - the feathers on their head get quite messy.” Jason cocks his head, considering Bernie, and Serena thinks he’s got it right - Bernie Wolfe with her sad eyes and her drawn mouth. 

Bernie puts a hand to her head self-consciously and Serena reaches for her fingers, pulls them away. “It’s a good messy,” she says, her voice low and conspiratorial, and she doesn’t let go, not for a long moment, just stares at their joined hands and wonders what might’ve happened if Jason hadn’t intervened.

**partridge.**

It’s hard not to feel festive, Bernie finds, when there’s snow on the ground and icicle lights hanging from every roof. Even with the maudlin state of her family life, she finds her heart easing a bit at the sight of it. She’s sent a text to Cam and Charlotte, asking if they might like to do dinner on Christmas with her. And Serena and Jason and Elinor. She’s heard nothing back, supposes it might be too much to hope for. At least she’ll have Serena, face pinked from wine, face lit by candles, and that seems like enough of a holiday.

The corner of her mouth lifts as she thinks of Serena’s lips on her cheek, just a barely-there brush, but the memory of it has etched itself in her mind. She thinks, of anything in her life right now, her friendship with Serena is what she’s most grateful for, a kindred spirit in the bustling hospital, a confidant amidst all her troubles. And then she thinks of Serena’s eyes, warm and dark and lit from within, so close to her own, their breath mingling as their mouths almost touch, mistletoe hanging over their heads. 

And there her thoughts fail her - she can’t imagine what it might be like to kiss Serena, doesn’t think that any imaginings would live up to the reality, all that care and light and love that make Serena who she is, just pressed up against Bernie. 

Though she’s walking in the cold evening air, her face is hot at the thought, the back of her neck warm under her scarf. She pushes open the door to Albie’s, the warmth from inside catching her, luring her in. She sees chairs have been pushed aside, remembers there’s karaoke tonight, an all-Christmas song edition, and vows to stay far away from the stage, doesn’t want to inflict her wavering alto on anyone. 

Bernie sidles to the bar, sheds her coat, straddles a stool and orders two glasses of red wine, just anticipates that it’s what Serena will want for herself when she arrives. She comes in soon enough, a gust of cold air signalling her arrival, and she comes straight to Bernie, her hands cold as she gives Bernie’s shoulder a squeeze. “Cheers,” she says, lifting her waiting glass, clinking it softly against Bernie’s and takes a deep sip. Bernie can’t help but watch her swallow, the undulations of her throat mesmerizing.

“A few more of these and I’ll be up on stage,” she says, her voice warm and happy, her eyes shining, just for Bernie.

“You’ve got the voice for it,” she mutters back, still somehow unused to sitting in Serena’s glow.

“Ta,” Serena says, taking another sip. 

She has two more glasses of wine, is easily coaxed on stage, the performer in her taking over, driving her to sing in front of a willing and tipsy audience. Bernie can only sit on the sidelines and take it all in. 

She and Ric sing a duet first, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” and Serena hams it up, plays to the crowd, and Bernie can see everyone falling in love with her, no longer feels alone in that emotion. And then when Ric begs off the stage, Serena scrolls through the list of songs, settles on one, and begins to quietly sing the opening bars.

Bernie doesn’t know who sings this song originally, has only heard it on the radio around the holidays, but she just wants a recording of this, of Serena throatily crooning the lyrics. “I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know…”

Her eyes meet Bernie’s then, and Bernie feels like she’s been stabbed in the chest, her heart pulsing, her blood flowing, hot under her skin. She can’t blink, is too scared of ruining the moment, that she’ll do something to break the spell. And when Serena sings the hook, Bernie could almost swear Serena points at her through the crowd. “All I want for Christmas is you…”

It’s too much and Bernie has to look away, looks down into her wine glass, deep red, catching the low light of Albie’s. When her eyes turn back to the stage, Serena is still looking, still staring, her gaze unreadable, and Bernie flushes under the attention. 

“- a partridge in a pear trrrreeeeeeee.” A drunken warble comes from somewhere just to Serena’s left, and a man trips over the cord to the karaoke machine, his pint dropping, glass shattering, and Serena’s song comes to a halt. Bernie feels an immediate sadness at the loss of her voice, looks back down at her wine glass, feels her eyes welling up for reasons she isn’t quite ready to name.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket and she slides it open to see a text from Cameron, just three words, but they buoy her spirits considerably: “We’d love to.”

**pigeon.**

Serena doesn’t like the short days, the nights that start before she’s managed to leave work. Even the snow falling, a beautiful dusting in the light from the lamps around the hospital, does nothing to help her 

She hears her name, turns to see Bernie running after her. “Careful you don’t slip in this,” she calls, gesturing at the snow, slick and wet. Bernie pulls a face and slows to a more sedate tempo, still reaching Serena in fairly short order. 

“Long day? Feels like I barely saw you,” Bernie says when she’s close, too close, the way they always are. Serena can’t stop herself from pulling the collar of Bernie’s coat in tight, buttoning the top button. She pats at the pale pink fabric with her glove, as if to ensure that it’s there, that it’s keeping Bernie warm. 

“Back-to-back surgeries. My feet are _quite_ tired.” Her voice is prim, a false propriety that makes Bernie smile. Her hand is still on Bernie’s coat, just below her shoulder, and Bernie’s gaze slants down to stare at it, but Serena can’t bring herself to move it, not yet. She hasn’t seen Bernie all day, she thinks she’s allowed this closeness, this intimacy. 

She’s given herself sort of a mental allotment, of what she’s allowed to do where Bernie is concerned. She can rub her shoulder, squeeze her elbow. If she hasn’t seen Bernie in over three hours, she’s allowed to stand next to her at the nurse’s station, thighs touching, knees bumping. Bernie doesn’t seem to mind, even reciprocates gestures sometimes, in an endearingly halting sort of way. 

Serena isn’t allowed to think about kissing Bernie, or about hanging mistletoe over their office door. She’s not allowed to stare at Bernie’s mouth, or think about licking a trail along the scar that’s usually visible just around the neck of her scrubs. 

But now, this, in the snowy outdoors, when she hasn’t seen Bernie all day, Serena is letting herself do this, to be close to Bernie, to care for her, to let it show. She moves into Bernie, can feel the warmth of her, presses her fingers ever so slightly into her as she drops her hand.

“How was your day?” she asks, her voice seeming suddenly loud in the quiet parking lot, the snow dampening everything, making a blanket of silence around them. 

“I was doing paperwork while you were saving lives. Making sure the wheels were still turning on the place.” Bernie’s tone is wry and Serena smiles, feels snowflakes caught in the creases of her eyes, quickly melting from the heat of her face.

“Ah, your favorite way to spend time, then,” Serena says, bumps her shoulder against Bernie’s, and they start to move towards her car, towards Bernie’s car too. They always park near each other, on the days they leave at the same time. Makes it easier to walk out the door together. 

Serena doesn’t want to say good night, not yet, wants to elongate these moments, wants to soak in Bernie’s presence, something to keep her warm while she’s falling asleep, huddled under her quilt, face pressed against the pillow. Bernie’s biting at her lip and Serena wonders if she’s stalling too. 

“Still coming for Christmas dinner?” she asks inanely, because she knows the answer is yes. Bernie nods, dislodging flakes from her curls, and Serena’s finger twitches as she resists the impulse to tuck the loose strands behind her ear, knows she isn’t allowed this intimacy.

“Can I bring anything?” Bernie has asked this question before, at least five times, and every time Serena has rebuffed her, but tonight, under the sky sparkling with snow, the moon just visible through the clouds, Serena changes her mind.

“You can bring the wine,” she says, a benevolent offer, willing to share some responsibility for the holiday with Bernie, wonders if Bernie knows the significance.

It seems she has an inkling, holds out her hand to shake on it. “Deal,” she says, as Serena grips her hand, firm and sure, and even though they’re both wearing gloves, Serena can imagine the slide of skin against her palm. Bernie’s thumb rubs ever so slightly against the smooth black leather of Serena’s gloves, and Serena smiles fondly at their joined hands, at the familiar feeling, at the fact that she’s allowed to do this too. 

The moment is broken, slightly, when a large white patch blossoms on Bernie’s shoulder, a slight odor emanating from it, and Serena looks up just in time to see a pigeon fly past the streetlight, silhouetted in the night. “Shit,” Bernie says, dropping Serena’s hand, her fingers hovering just over the splotch.

“So it would seem,” Serena says, eyebrow arched. “That’s good luck, you know,” she adds, reaching into her purse for a tissue, rubbing futilely at the white splotch on Bernie’s shoulder.

Bernie leans ever so slightly into Serena’s touch, her breath a fog in the cold night air. “I hope so.”

**goose.**

Serena’s home is lovely, almost unbearably so. It’s warm and cozy, and everything Bernie expects from the place where Serena lives. There are logs on the fire, merrily crackling. Her tree is real and smells of balsam, needles dotting the tree skirt with felted wise men walking across it. She has bowls of mixed nuts, platters of carefully iced Christmas cookies, and when Bernie asks when she found the time, Serena whispers, “Marks and Spencers.” 

Serena’s home, in short, is everything Bernie never managed to achieve in her married life. It is picture perfect and homey and Bernie is only uncomfortable because of how comfortable it all feels, because she can imagine herself spending her Christmases this way for the rest of her life. She sits with Jason on the couch in the living room, the Doctor Who special playing on television. Cameron and Charlotte are doing a puzzle at the long table in front of the sofa, something with polar bears in bright red caps, appropriately festive. Elinor is texting on her phone in the corner. And Serena is in the kitchen, refusing assistance with anything. Bernie can hear the sound of a mixer at work, the clatter of pans, and all she can think of is _family_. 

It’s only when everything is in the oven, when the burners are set to low, that Serena comes out to join them. She nestles in on the couch, squeezing Bernie into the middle seat, lifting her feet onto the cushions, poking her toes underneath Bernie’s thigh. She has an impish look on her face, and Bernie smiles at it, beams at it, rests her arm on Serena’s knees. There’s a loud sigh from Elinor’s corner and Bernie glances over to see an eye roll followed by voracious texting. 

Serena sighs too, softly, sadly, and Bernie looks at her, cocks her head in a question she won’t put voice to. Serena just shrugs, tilts her head in Elinor’s direction, and Bernie nods in understanding. More and more they are able to have these wordless conversations, this communication that’s all built on the understanding they’ve developed together, a seamless flow between the two of them. Bernie’s never had anything like this before in her life. 

She rubs Serena’s knee gently, an effort to comfort her. Instead, Serena’s whole leg flails a bit, a reflexive reaction to being tickled, and Bernie thinks she’ll have a bruise in the shape of Serena’s toes on her thigh, supposes it’s some sort of karmic retribution for instigating the ungainly display. She marvels that, even with their closeness, she’s never known how ticklish Serena is; she likes that there are still things to be discovered.

The cooking is timed perfectly, timers going off just as the credits to the Doctor Who special begin to roll, and for the first time, Serena accepts help. Bernie is charged with pouring wine; Cameron, Elinor and Charlotte with carrying food out to the table; Jason with making sure the name placards at each place setting are where he would choose them to be. Serena hands Bernie the wine and the corkscrew, their fingers just brushing as the items are passed over. But Serena doesn’t drop her hand, just stands there, staring at Bernie, her nails slightly scraping the underside of Bernie’s hand. 

Bernie sees Serena’s tongue, darting out for the briefest of moments, just wetting her lips, and her eyes flick down to Bernie’s mouth, then back up again. It feels as if they’re caught in this time, unable and unwilling to move, and Bernie thinks she could be content with staring at Serena forever. 

But Cameron comes out, opening the kitchen door with his rear. When he turns, his arms full with the platter of Christmas goose, the moment is broken and Serena’s hand falls away. Bernie blinks once, twice, shakes her head slightly, and goes to pour the wine.

\---

Jason is the first to go to bed, excusing himself with a large yawn and arm stretch. They can hear the sounds of the bathroom from where they’re seated in the living room, still working on the puzzle Cam and Charlotte started hours ago. 

Elinor is next to leave, says she has big plans for Boxing Day. Serena gives her a fond pat on the cheek, wishes her one last Happy Christmas as she heads up the stairs, pulling her red hair into a messy bun as she goes. 

Cam and Charlotte tuck themselves away in the spare bedroom, deigning to share with each other for the first time since they were little, long enough that Bernie can barely remember it. She follows them after they’ve settled under the quilt, each facing a wall, back to back. She leans down, brushes Charlotte’s blonde hair from her face and kisses her forehead. “Happy Christmas, my darling,” she says, her voice low, throaty, unexpected emotion clogging her throat. 

Charlotte leans into Bernie’s touch, the warmth of her smooth cheek against Bernie’s palm. “G’night, Mum,” she says. “See you tomorrow.” Bernie can’t remember the last time she heard Charlotte say those words and has to pull away before Charlotte can see the tears threatening to fall. 

She walks around to Cameron next, a gentle hand to his cheek as well, rubs her thumb against the scruff of his patchy beard. “Happy Christmas, Cam,” she says and starts to pull away, but he grabs her hand in his, gives it one quick squeeze and smiles, before closing his eyes. Bernie stares at the bed, at her two children, and feels her heart clench with the motherly love she had never planned for herself. 

“It’s weird to watch us sleep, Mum,” Cameron murmurs drowsily and Bernie chuckles softly, turns off the overhead light and heads back to the living room, to the couch, to Serena. 

“All tucked in?” she asks, her eyes dancing as she hands Bernie her glass of wine, the last of the bottle, and Bernie nods as she takes a sip. Bernie settles on the couch, drapes her hand across the back cushions, her hand almost touching Serena’s hair, her fingers tempted to brush against the brunette strands glowing in the firelight.

“Thank you, Serena,” Bernie says, and she doesn’t know how else to convey what she means. She doesn’t know what her Christmas would’ve been without her, doesn’t know if she would even have seen her children, much less had the promise of spending Boxing Day with them too. And it all comes crashing down on Bernie, on her shoulders, the reality of what Serena has done for her, what Serena has meant to her, and before she can stop herself, she’s leaning in to press a kiss to Serena’s cheek.

And just as she does, Serena turns to look at Bernie, and their lips collide, awkwardly, not quite right. It’s not a purposeful kiss, not really a pleasant one, but when Bernie pulls back, she sees a sort of determination in Serena’s eyes, and Serena’s hands frame Bernie’s face, holding her close, steady, and Serena leans back in, places her mouth squarely against Bernie’s. 

There’s no mistletoe, there’s no carol singing, there’s nothing but the two of them and the crackling fire, and as Bernie slips her tongue into Serena’s mouth, a log rolls from the blaze, shaking embers into the air, sprinkles of burning ash, and neither can find it in themselves to care. Bernie’s hands go into Serena’s hair, threading through the short strands, keeping her close, finds she can’t get enough, doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to stop. 

Serena pulls away, but just to nuzzle against Bernie’s cheek, to kiss at her jaw, the tendon in her neck, the place right behind her ear. Her mouth is hot, wet, and Bernie doesn’t ever want to wash the imprints of her perfect lips away. 

“Mmm,” Serena says, when she’s had her fill of Bernie for the moment, when she can pull away from Bernie’s skin, though her hands stay on Bernie’s arm, gripping her soft sweater, as if she can’t quite believe the moment is real. “Happy Christmas indeed.” She’s smiling a quiet half-smile, her mouth crooked in its joy, her dark eyes glimmering as the fire burns. 

“It’s late,” Bernie says and sees Serena’s face drop, knows her meaning wasn’t quite clear. “Perhaps we need to get ourselves to bed,” she continues. They hadn’t talked about where Bernie was going to sleep, not really. Perhaps they’d both assumed the sofa, with a blanket and a pillow and the memory of Serena to keep her warm. 

But now, Serena’s smile widens, slow and deep, and she stands, holds her hand out to Bernie, leads her upstairs. Bernie’s never seen Serena’s bedroom, has never even let herself imagine it. The bed is large and soft, the comforter thick and cozy. Bernie peels off her sweater, slides out of her trousers, and slips under the covers in just her bra and pants. Serena follows suit, and Bernie can feel the warmth of her even as the mattress dips as she joins Bernie. 

She doesn’t know the rules for this, the protocol, so she just decides to be brave, and slides her hand towards Serena’s, grasps it, interlaces their fingers. Serena smiles as she settles her head against the pillow, hums her contentment. There’s a lightness Bernie feels about her heart, a certain kind of festive spirit settling itself around her like a mantle. 

“Did you have a good Christmas, Bernie?” Serena asks, her voice distant and sleepy, and Bernie doesn’t even know if she’ll be awake to hear the answer. She looks at Serena, eyes closed, her lashes casting shadows on her pale cheeks, her lips resting in a small smile, the creases deep at the side of her mouth, and Bernie thinks how lovely it is that Serena is pleased when she sleeps. 

“I did,” she whispers into the quiet bedroom, only the sound of Serena’s breathing, slow and deep. “I did.”


End file.
